Hamish
by theconsultingtardisbananaangel
Summary: In the hospital, after John's death, Sherlock is left alone with a broken heart and a tiny infant. He can't forgive himself for the events leading up to that day, but he may just forgive his new son. Rated M for strong language, thematic elements, and mentions of male/male pregnancy.


"I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes."

Five words.

Six syllables.

One sentence from a tired doctor.

Five words seem so small in comparison to a lifetime; little blips on a screen or raindrops in a lake.

But five words can alter the course of one's life forever.

_I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes._

* * *

They'd been together less than a year when Sherlock stumbled on some experimental procedures allowing two men to father a child. As he read up on it, he grew more and more obsessed with the idea. Sociopath or not, he wanted children; and they needed to be John's as well as his. A surrogate simply wouldn't work, as only one could be a biological father. But a team of scientists had created a way to partially alter a man's gender, allowing him to carry a child to term. Elsewhere, a group of geneticists had found a way to conceive a child in a lab using one male's sperm and another's mitochondrial DNA placed inside of a synthetic egg.

He began to make calls, follow up on the successes of such procedures. He found out twenty-nine children out of twenty-nine had not only survived the experiments but were now thriving. He even met one, a five-year-old girl named Nina born to a rich CEO and his boyfriend. She was the picture of perfect health. He contacted the scientists and set up an appointment.

Now to tell John.

He steered the conversation towards children over dinner one evening. Actually, there was no steering at all. He set down his fork and waited for John to finish his tomatoes before blurting it out.

"I want to have children."

"You- you _what_?" John sputtered. He gave Sherlock one of his 'you're-absolutely-out-of-your-mind-Sherlock' looks before calming down again.

"Children."

"You- Sherlock..." John trailed off.

"It's clear you're wondering which to ask first: how I plan to do that and am I absolutely out of my mind."

"We're both men, Sherlock, and even if we weren't, it's a little sudden. We're not even married."

"We could fix that."

"Hang on- are you proposing to me? Or threatening to turn one of us into a girl?" John rubbed his temples. _Just when I thought I had him figured out... He goes and- and- springs this?_

"The former."

"Try again. And try to make sense this time."

"John, marry me."

"Once more."

"John Watson, will you please spend the rest of your life as my husband?"

"Better."

"Will you?"

"Of course, idiot."

"Great. Now can we talk about having children?"

* * *

Sherlock feels himself falling, and only just manages to land in a chair. The world is bright, too bright, and the people are too loud.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He doesn't respond. He can't. The doctor gently helps him to his feet and guides him into the room. The first thing he notices is is the cold; the second is the grey. All of the warmth and color have been drained.

And there's John, his John. So still, so quiet. Just laying there, staring blankly at nothing. An IV still drips into his arm. He hears someone yelling at the doctors for not trying hard enough; realizes that it's him. And then he's at his husband's bedside, shaking him and telling him to wake up.

Someone's had the courtesy to cover John's body from the chest down. In his shaking, however, he disrupts the careful placement of the sheet and suddenly there is blood and it's John's blood his John and there's so much and _he's not waking the fuck up he's not blinking John my John_

"Why isn't he waking up?" The words repeated like a mantra, a macabre chorus unending until finally a nurse takes note and gives him a blanket for the shock. He throws it across the room because he's only ever had a shock blanket once before and John was there and now he's not and Sherlock can't bear it.

"We need to move him," says another nurse after minutes/decades/seconds/lifetimes and he moves numbly aside as they begin to take him away.

_I'm so sorry, John. I love you. Goodbye, my doctor._ He kisses him on the forehead, hoping to convey all of these things and more. Before they wheel John away, he stops the orderlies and slides John's eyes shut.

His mind has gone numb, hiding the absolute chaos that lies beneath.

"God, I need a cigarette," he says right before he blacks out.

* * *

"Ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

Sherlock and John were guided back into an examination room. After quite a few arguments and long, late-night conversations, John agreed to accompany Sherlock to a consultation. The detective automatically offered to carry the child, but John told him that if, not when, a child was going to be carried he'd do it. After all, how can a man who can hardly remember to feed himself daily possibly undergo a normal pregnancy?

Not that there was anything normal about it.

An hour later, and it was decided that John was in perfect condition for the procedure. The risks and process were explained and Sherlock started watching John intently, just waiting for him to call everything off.

But he didn't.

Instead, he asked when they could start, and Sherlock began to compile a list of possible baby names on the spot.

* * *

When Sherlock comes to he's in a hospital bed. The emotional numbness is gone and in its place is an excruciating pain and terror that courses through his veins. His throat is raw and rough, and his eyes sting beyond belief. Every muscle aches and the world is positively _alight_ in pain.

Time hasn't yet returned to its usual state and it feels like centuries before a doctor comes in.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?"

_Like someone has doused my body in acid and then lit it on fire._

"I hear you hit your head pretty bad."

"Ly."

"I'm sorry?"

"Badly."

"Oh, yes, yes, of course." The doctor scratches his head, unsure what to say.

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"About two hours."

"Where have they taken John?"

The doctor looks pained now, as if he thinks he's going to have to reinform the bedridden detective of his husband's death.

"Mr. Holmes, your husband is dead."

"I know. Where is he?"

"He's moved on to a better place," the doctor murmurs unconvincingly.

"No, where is he now?"

"Oh. Uh, basement."

Sherlock stands up but his knees shake and he's back on the bed before he realizes that he's moved at all.

"No, you're not leaving the bed for a while."

"Why the hell not?"

"You just underwent great trauma, and we've given you a painkiller IV for your fall. You won't be walking anywhere for a few hours."

"Then get me a FUCKING WHEELCHAIR!" Sherlock shouts, unable to stop himself. He grabs a vase of lilies from the bedside table and flings it at the wall. It bounces. _Plastic._ Water spills and the lilies roll across the floor. The doctor puts them back in but sets it down out of Sherlock's reach.

"I can bring your son to you, if you'd like."

_Son?_

__"My son? Survived?"

"Yes. He's perfectly healthy."

Another emotion begins to tussle with the pain and grief. _Our son. John's son._

"Do you want us to bring his crib to your room?"

Sherlock can only nod as he feels himself begin to cry.

* * *

"Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up."

"John?" Sherlock stirred at John's urgent tone. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he responded. "Everything's fine." He moved closer into Sherlock, his body fitting perfectly into the detective's. "Here."

"Oh," gasped Sherlock as John took his hand and placed it over his swollen stomach. He could feel a faint stirring inside, and it was absolutely incredible.

"He gets his crazy sleep patterns from you," John said as affectionately as one can say a thinly veiled accusation.

"Sorry."

"I don't mind. It's kind of nice. Reminds me that he's here."

"Mmm." Sherlock rested his head between John's shoulder blades, listening to his heartbeat.

"Holy-" John grunted as the baby delivered a swift kick to his stomach.

"Sorry."

"No, not you. Just tell- mmph- your son to- AGH- stop kicking me."

"My son." Sherlock held on tighter to the doctor. "Our son." The words seemed soft somehow.

John shifted until their chests were pressed together. Sherlock kissed his forehead.

"Go to sleep, John."

"G'night."

"I love you."

"I love you."

* * *

The door opens again, and the doctor is back. He is accompanied by a nurse who looks rather like a vegetable pushing a cart and a scrub-orderly carrying something wrapped in light blue cloth.

Vegetable Nurse begins to transform the wheeled thing into a miniature bed and Scrub Guy moves towards his side. He holds out the bundle of fabric and Sherlock can see that it's breathing. He allows it to be placed in his lap.

The doctor is saying something about a birth certificate and the nurse begins to instruct him on formula. Eventually he's alone again, alone with the sleeping pink creature and the blue blanket.

The thing that killed John.

The thing that he created.

He feels a wave of self-hatred rush through him and he shuts his eyes.

But it's also half John; John's only son.

The baby makes a noise like a sneezing kitten, and he's snapped back into reality. He forces himself to look at the child, really look. He's got brownish fuzz on his head in damp little curls. His face is round and pink, puffy cheeks and the tiniest little nose that Sherlock's ever seen. His eyelashes flutter in his sleep, and the detective's battered heart melts. He cradles the infant to his chest, needing the warmth and weight of his child. He sits still for a long time, counting breaths and heartbeats. He wants the child to awaken and see him for the first time, but he dreads seeing the child's eyes.

What if he doesn't have John's eyes?

What if he does?

Sherlock traces his fingers over his son's soft skin. He can smell John, but he knows that it will fade shortly. He lets the blanket fall open, marvels at the size of the baby's feet and toes.

Then the child whimpers in his sleep and Sherlock begins to rock him back and forth as his baby stirs in his arms. He seems so close to waking up, and Sherlock isn't ready to look his son in the eyes just yet and so he begins to sing softly. It's not so much singing as it is purring a wordless melody that he had written for John. The infant settles down again and Sherlock sighs with relief.

The doctor comes to the door but sees that everything is fine and thinks better of interrupting the new, if incomplete, family.

Sherlock doesn't realize he's crying until a tear falls into his son's blanket. The quiet tears give way into violent, emotional sobs as he thinks of John and how he should be here, fighting over who gets to hold him and demanding some socks and a little hat. But John's gone, lost to him forever, and he wasn't even there with him at the end. The baby's cries soon join his father's until Sherlock pulls himself together, blows his nose, and takes the warm bottle that the nurse has left. He somehow remembers to test it against his inner wrist before giving it to the baby, and it's the perfect temperature.

_Baby Holmes-Watson_, the bottle is labeled. Sherlock avoids the child's eyes as he holds the bottle to his mouth. He quiets immediately and begins to drink, emitting little humming coos that threaten to melt Sherlock's heart even more. Eventually he nudges the bottle away and cuddles back into Sherlock's chest. He know he will do anything and everything to protect the child as he chews on his hospital gown.

"Silly baby, we don't eat things that aren't food."

Sherlock makes a face at the infant, who lets go of his gown and flashes a small pink smile. His eyes are mostly closed and Sherlock finds himself playing peek-a-boo with his son, anything for the bubbly, golden laughter that eases the pain slightly.

And then he takes a break to gaze fondly at the boy.

And his eyes open.

They're blue, ice colored.

Sherlock's heart breaks once more as he looks into his own eyes. He wishes they were hazel, but something in the innocent gaze reminds him of John anyway.

* * *

John had wanted to take the ultrasound at the hospital, but Sherlock convinced him that it would be more private if he set up the equipment in the lab. They'd decided not to tell anyone about the pregnancy, mostly because of the public's close watch of the famous detective. They told everyone that they were waiting for their adoption papers and were unsure of when they'd go through.

Which meant they needed to be very discreet.

Sherlock arrived a few hours earlier than John to set everything up. He told Molly to not let anyone inside one of the lab rooms and told her it was a confidential matter. She raised an eyebrow at the ultrasound machine but decided not to push it.

_John, everything's set up. _

_x SH_

Molly figured that John didn't count as an unwanted intruder, so she pointed him into the room and went back to her novel.

Inside the room, Sherlock was next to him as soon as John opened the door. He kissed his now-husband on the cheek and hung up his coat.

"Your throne awaits, sir," he joked, bowing deeply. John curtsied and sat down.

"Many thanks, humble servant."

"Your Highness should be advised that the gel is cold."

"We shall indeed take note." John pulled his sweater off to reveal a tight grey t-shirt. He exposed his swollen stomach, cringing as Sherlock spread the cold, viscous liquid over the stretched skin.

"I think this thing's the camera or something."

"Here, let me. I've done this before." John took the camera-thing from Sherlock and pressed it to his stomach. A black and white image filled the screen. "Can't say I've ever been on the receiving end, though."

"Whoah," Sherlock said. The baby was curled in, well, fetal position, obviously asleep. John began to point out various things, but Sherlock couldn't really comprehend what he was saying. He'd listened to the child via stethoscope, but hearing a whisper of a heartbeat and seeing the baby were totally different things. He focused on the heartbeat, tuning everything else out that wasn't his child.

"Sherlock, I said let me up."

"Oh, er, sorry." He handed John a towel and the doctor wiped the gel off before putting his shirt back in place.

"Sherlock? You okay?"

"Yeah. It's just... A son. I never really imagined I'd have one."

"Well, I never imagined being pregnant, and here we are."

"Here we are."

* * *

"Mr. Holmes? You have visitors."

"What? Who?"

"A whole bunch of them. One who claims to be your brother, one who claims to be from Scotland Yard, someone named Mindy or Molly or something, an old lady, and some others." The vegetable-faced nurse hustles around the room, delivering more lilies and a rather garish teddy bear with 'Freak' embroidered on its stomach.

"You can let in Molly, and the elderly woman." He doesn't yet have the energy to face Mycroft or anyone else quite yet. He'd become quite close to Molly after his 'death', and Mrs. Hudson was probably the only one who knew anything about babies.

"Okay. But if your brother offers me more than a thousand quid to let him back, I'm doing it."

"He would bribe you." The thought was strangely comforting.

"And the police guy threatened me, so make it quick."

She returns shortly with Molly and Mrs. Hudson and then refills the milk bottle heater and leaves.

"Sherlock, he's gorgeous," Molly gushes before remembering the solemn overtones of the occasion. The infant's stomach makes a loud noise, and Sherlock panics briefly before Mrs. Hudson steps forward.

"Sherlock, did you feed him yet?"

"Yeah."

"Did you burp him?"

"Burp- what?"

"Here." Mrs. Hudson reaches for the baby. Sherlock hesitates slightly, and she rolls her eyes.

"Be careful."

Mrs. Hudson begins to walk around, patting the baby's back. Molly sits down at the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"You okay?" Her voice is quiet.

"No."

"I'm so, so sorry, Sherlock," she says, taking his hand. He squeezes it gently with a sad smile.

"There. All happy!" Mrs. Hudson hands the infant to Sherlock. He shoves the boy gently but insistently into Molly's arms. He misses John too much for words. His husband would have known how to take care of an infant.

"Hi, little mini-Sherlock," Molly was saying. She instantly picked up on Sherlock's pain and started tickling the baby.

"I have absolutely no idea what to do with a child," he says to no one in particular.

"What's that, dear?" Mrs. Hudson is watering his flowers. Sherlock knows he'd be crying again if he hadn't overused his tear ducts already.

"I have absolutely no idea what to do with him."

"You're not giving him up for adoption, Sherlock."

"No, no, of course not. I just meant that I don't know how to care for him."

"So you call for me whenever you're confused. I don't care if it's two o' clock or twelve."

"Thank you."

"I'm going to go make sure your brother and that detective don't start any fires," she mutters, walking back out of the room.

Soon she's back with the Detective Inspector and Mycroft. Sherlock takes his son from Molly.

"So, Sherlock, you wanna tell us exactly how the hell this happened?" Lestrade looks absolutely weirded out.

"I fell and hit my head and now I'm in a hospital bed."

"No, I mean the part where you had a child with another man."

"Who told you?"

"Your internet history is very revealing, Sherlock," said Mycroft, studying the wall. "I must say, it was a very good idea, combining your intelligence with Doctor Watson's, ah, heart."

"You- he- combined? This child is NOT an experiment," the detective snarled. "He's my son."

"Yes, of course. I never thought otherwise."

"John underwent an experimental procedure pioneered by some doctors in Sweden and some geneticists in New York," Sherlock explained to Lestrade, eyes still narrowed at his brother.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Mycroft glares right back at the younger Holmes.

"I thought your spying on our internet told you," he spits.

"Sherlock, I'm still your emergency contact, and I got a call saying that John died in _fucking childbirth_ and you were unconscious, so I came here and the doctor wouldn't tell me anything else, so I used my laptop to-"

"Enough! Both of you!" Mrs Hudson shakes her head at the brothers. "Mycroft, leave him alone."

"But I-"

"Holmes," says Lestrade in a warning tone.

"I could have you fired in a second if I-"

"Leave, Mycroft." Sherlock points at the door. "Take a time out and come back when you aren't insulting children or officers of the law that you are in charge of."

Mycroft opens his mouth to speak but thinks better of it and walks off.

"Your uncle isn't very nice," Sherlock tells the child in his arms.

"He doesn't mean it, dear, he's just worried." Mrs. Hudson glances through the window at the pacing politician.

"I know."

"He did almost lose a nephew," Lestrade points out. Sherlock stiffens at the thought. Molly winces.

A few awkward minutes passed with the word 'lose' hanging in the air. Sherlock begins to think about John again, and Mrs. Hudson gives the flowers more water.

"You can let Mycroft out of time out," Sherlock finally says.

"Mycroft? You're allowed back," calls Mrs. Hudson.

"Sorry, dear brother," says Mycroft, actually looking somewhat sincere.

"You're paying the medical bills."

"I already have."

"Also, Molly, you're his godmother."

"Okay."

"If something happens to me..." Sherlock trails off. "Actually, nothing's going to happen to me. Lestrade, I quit."

"Okay. But I still might text you the details of a case or two."

The baby gurgles.

"Shh. Uncle Meany-Pants isn't gonna hurt you." Sherlock offers his son a finger, which he sucks on happily.

"Sherlock, 'Uncle Meany-Pants' has to meet with a few members of Parliament now, so can you please give my nephew a name so I can have it embroidered on lots of soft things?"

"A name?"

"Yes, brother. Surely you've heard of them?"

"Oh. Er, yeah."

"Well, it can't get weirder than 'Sherlock' or 'Mycroft', can it?" Lestrade laughs.

"Hamish."

"I stand corrected."

"It was John's middle name." Sherlock watches a lily petal float to the floor, damaged from his earlier rage. "Hamish."

"It suits him." Molly gazes fondly at her godson.

Eventually, his friends leave and he's alone with Hamish.

He sends a text to Mycroft, asking for a photo of John. It arrives within the hour.

"This is your father, Hamish. His name was John, and he was the love of my life."

Sherlock feeds the baby once more before placing him in his crib.

"You would have loved him."

Life would be unbearable without John, but he had Hamish now.

Besides, 221's rooftop would be a great place to raise beehives.


End file.
